


The Butcher of Baltimore

by buttercups3



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Gen, Language, Miles Matheson Appreciation Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 18:57:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttercups3/pseuds/buttercups3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A friendship piece about Miles, Bass, and Jeremy that explores the incident in Baltimore that led to Miles's unflattering moniker. Dirty banter, a faux cult, and excess bloodshed ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Butcher of Baltimore

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dareyoutoread](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dareyoutoread/gifts).



> Written for Miles Matheson Appreciation Week...because how better to appreciate him than to give him time with his bestest friends? The sexy banter is meant in jest, folks, but if you want to take it as Miles/Bass/Jeremy, it won't offend me. ;)

_Philadelphia_

It’s been drizzling on and off, despite being wickedly hot and humid for the past week. Bass has invited Miles and Jeremy to walk with him to be briefed on some ‘unpleasant’ business relating to Baltimore. It’s still morning, and Miles always has to fight to be civil before noon. It’s not that he hasn’t faced a lifetime of early mornings in the Marines. Drills, roll calls, sweaty socks and balls, all before the sun has tracked its way to the center of the blue dome, have only habituated his loathing. Miles waddles grumpily behing Bass and Jeremy, preemptively ruing the moment he’ll be forced to enter their cheery prattle.

“Miles. You swap your nuts for Fabergé eggs this morning? Fuck’s wrong with you?” Bass asks, holding the door for both men in a creative convergence of perversity and gentlemanliness. 

Miles hasn't realized how much he’s been favoring his groin until Bass points it out. “Thigh hurts when the weather’s like this,” he grouses sullenly.

Jeremy takes a moment to mentally place ‘the thigh.’ Bass’s and Miles’s first tour in Iraq – Jeremy knows their war stories (maybe even treasures them). Miles had come back with a wedge of metal near his groin, and Bass a broken arm. This litany of shared scars binds Miles and Bass together in a braid of intimacy Jeremy can never share. And when he’s feeling excluded, he likes to put on his frowny face and remind them how lucky they are to have saved his ass and brought him along for the ride.

So Jeremy pouts and prompts Miles, “Would you like me to rub it for you?”

Without missing a beat Miles turns to Bass: “Could you give us a minute?”

Bass shoots him a crooked, admiring smile.  “Come on, dears. I’ve got a date with a slosh bucket. Your lovemaking will have to wait. We can walk and talk.”

Jeremy shudders when they reach the latrines. “I can never get used to this part of soldier life.”

Both Bass and Miles shrug, drop trou, and hover over a trench rather than using the officers’ outhouses. They’re probably just doing it to make Jeremy squirm. He stands there with his arms folded trying to decide whether or not to make eye contact. His eyes keep drifting to the whitest asses this side of the Monroe Republic border.

Miles grunts unnecessarily, and Bass goads, “Don’t fight it, Miles!”

“So what’s the shit-storm in Baltimore, Bass?” Miles asks, serious at last, as he wipes his ass.

“Well. You’re not gonna like it, Miles. Maybe you should step away from the poo,” Bass suggests.

Miles looks mournfully back at the slit trench before stepping aside. Bass rights himself, and the three begin walking toward the water pump.

“It’s Wolfe,” Bass announces, bending down to wash his hands in the clear stream of water Jeremy pumps for him.

“What?” Miles barks. “Wolfe went to Baltimore?”

Wolfe was head of one of the other militias Bass and Miles had licked in the early days of the Blackout. When Wolfe had lost most of his troops in a last bitter confrontation, he’d disappeared, gone underground, and they’d never heard from him again.

“He’s incited a tax rebellion, if you can believe it. No taxation without representation!” Bass cackles, and he gesticulates something akin to a hot poker being shoved up an asshole.

Miles just stares at him. He licks his lips.

“Miles, I know you were shit in school, but surely you’ve heard of the Revolutionary War,” Jeremy chides.

“Fuck you. I know about no taxation without representation.” It sounds a hair toward pathetic that Miles feels the need to defend this.

Bass tries to hide his grin. He claps Miles on the back, since he likes to encourage Miles’s scholasticism. “Yeah, well, there’s a core group of Baltimorians under Wolfe’s spell, who haven’t paid up in months.”

Bass has his mouth open, about to go on, but Miles interrupts him by spitting in the dirt and bellowing:

“We haven’t so much as caught a whiff of that cock-bonnet in years, and now he’s suddenly flexing his muscles? Who’s your source on Wolfe…and why didn’t they report to _me_?”

“Uh oh. Lover’s spat,” Jeremy narrates leaning his elbows on the pump and watching them like a television soap. Bass and Miles frequently get into quibbles about whose job responsibilities are whose.

Miles has flung his hands onto his hips, heaving. Jeremy finds Miles a riot in the morning. He’d be so disappointed if Miles finally found a way to be amicable before lunch.

Bass rolls his eyes but explains, “It was a cavalry unit, Miles, doing their _job_ at reconnaissance, and don’t get sore – you were away on campaign until yesterday, remember? They had to report to me. Wolfe doesn’t know _we_ know he’s behind this. He apparently lives in an underground storm cellar. And there’s a bigger picture here, boys. Wolfe’s like a religious guru or a cult leader or something.”

Mentally, Miles concedes that Bass is not in the wrong but he just mumbles, “The fuck is wrong with people? I’ll gladly shoot Wolfe in the head, but what do you want me to do with the rest? I could just shoot them, too, since they’re stupid enough to follow him. Save us a boatload of trouble. I hate wasting men as prison guards.”

“We should outlaw religion!” Jeremy again. Being a wise ass. He doubles over laughing, like his suggestion is intolerably hilarious. Really he’s just laughing at Miles’s dour expression about the prison guard thing. Jeremy has the giggles now, and there’s no turning back.

Bass is trying to maintain a serious expression, while Miles grumbles, “I’m going to run you through with my swords if you don’t stop laughing at me.” Of course, this only makes Jeremy laugh harder, and Miles’s choice of words reveals he, too, is succumbing to Jeremy’s good mood.

Bass objects: “What did I say about the lovemaking? _Later!_ ” He looks more seriously at Miles. “Honestly, I’d give ‘em another month to pay up after you’ve collected Wolfe. They’ll probably come around.”

Miles nods.

“And Miles,” Bass calls over a shoulder as he is walking away, “Don’t shoot Wolfe there. We’ll try him as a war criminal. Don’t make him into a martyr.”

Miles narrows his eyes as if to say, _I’m not an idiot_ , but Jeremy is rather glad Bass has spelled this out. Miles can be rash and overconfident in the field. It’s best to outline these things as much as possible in advance.

* * *

_Baltimore_

Miles is briefing his officers in his gravelly, I-mean-business voice. Jeremy’s nodding but probably not paying as much attention as the situation warrants; his eyes are scanning the people milling about at their quotidian tasks – chasing chickens, cooking eggs, hoeing gardens - all in the cracked-cement landscape of Baltimore. Miles can always tell when Jeremy’s not attentive.

“Captain! You gonna get my men killed, or are you gonna listen to my orders?”

“Sir!” Jeremy says snapping back to reality. He prefers not to be in the field with Miles (who hyper-scrutinizes Jeremy’s tactical decisions), but for some reason, Miles has been insisting on walking Jeremy more and more like a favorite dog. Maybe he’s lonely?

“Alright then,” Miles concedes. “No muskets, boys. We’ll leave ‘em behind under a small guard. Blades only. I don’t want any unnecessary bloodshed. We take Wolfe, we give the rest their tax deadline, and we march our asses back to Philly in an orderly fashion. Got it?”

“Sir!” they respond in unison.

Miles beckons at Jeremy, as he dismisses the rest. Jeremy braces himself for an additional tactical brief, but lo and behold, Miles wants to talk about his feelings. He is lonely! Jeremy decides.

“Bad feeling,” is what Miles says.

“Sir?” Jeremy’s allowed to call Miles whatever he wants – Jeremy knew Miles when he was an AWOL Marine sergeant, far from the exalted general of the Republic – but in the field, Jeremy does think it’s important to set a good example for the men.

“People do poncey things in the name of religion.” Miles smirks. They have a British captain in the ranks and are often grateful to him for expanding their lexicon of insults.

“They do indeed…You sure about the no guns thing?” Jeremy asks him. 

“I’m not sure of anything, Jeremy. I thought you knew that about me by now.” The smirk spreads into a smile, because Miles knows full well he acts with perfect arrogance in the field.

Jeremy nods. “Well the swagger does help make up for a troubling lack of intellect, but usually your gut isn’t too far off, so I’ll be on the lookout for trouble.”

“Just keep your men calm, and we’ll get out of this fine,” Miles says seriously.

The general watches Jeremy walk away and leans against a railing to take a swig from his flask. The troops start to knock on row-house doors, delivering notice. No taxation without representation my ass, Miles thinks. Cocksuckers. They value the protection of the Militia but want something for nothing. Religion has zero to do with it.

Miles senses something amiss before he sees it. Suddenly, there is Wolfe’s ugly mug, drifting toward him amidst a sea of white cloak, surrounded by his followers all armed to the teeth with pitchforks, pikes, and axes. There must be 60 of these people. It’s a deeply unsettling image, like Christ returning on his chariot of clouds for the final battle. The Militia have surrounded them, and Jeremy orders all civilians to drop their weapons.

A scuffle breaks out at the back of the crowd and the bloodshed begins – Miles sees a red plume arc up like a firehose. Miles has a rifle with him and takes aim using the fence as anchor. He plants a perfect shot between the eyes of Wolfe, who crumbles dead in the midst of the chaos. There is wailing now from the followers and instead of stillness, redoubled efforts to fight. Fuck, Miles thinks. Fuck.

He slings his rifle over his back and draws his swords as he strides over to the fray. His stomach drops out as he watches a wild woman slash Jeremy across the back from behind, as Jeremy tries to deal with a teeth-baring, tomahawk-wielding man. Miles slices this woman first, then systematically skewers two, three, four, five, and on the sixth, the fighters finally freeze, so Miles roars, “Enough!”

His chest is heaving. It’s unbelievable carnage – an enormous heap of mutilated flesh. One man has been partially beheaded…and there are children, some not more than 13 or 14 years old who have sacrificed themselves on the altar of this false idol.

Miles wipes the foam away from his own mouth and says, “Drop your weapons if you want to live!”

Weapons clatter to the ground at last. The soldiers round up the remaining civilians (and there aren’t many), while Miles calls a medic for Jeremy. As the medic rolls Jeremy gently onto his stomach to dress the wound, Miles takes Jeremy’s hand.

“You’ll be ok, man. It’s just a scratch.” The usual gruff voice but shot through with tremulous caring.

Jeremy manages a smile. “Yeah, paper cuts always sting the most.” He winces.

Miles squeezes his hand a little harder.

“Miles…sorry.”

“Jesus, Jeremy. This isn’t your fault. My command. My responsibility. Don’t give it another thought.”

* * *

_Philadelphia_

Bass and Miles stand gazing at Jeremy, who is resting peacefully on his stomach in bed. He has a ghastly display of grayish stitches lining his back, but he will recover.

Bass and Miles haven’t spoken to each other yet, and Bass has been turning over and over what to say.

“You know, these kinds of things happened all the time in the United States: cult leaders. Suicide spectacles,” Miles mumbles.

“You don’t need to be defensive with me, Miles. I get what happened. But…that’s not what the newspapers are reporting. They failed to mention the cultish overtones of Wolfe’s movement. Instead they’ve been focusing on the ‘no taxation without representation’ part. Do you know what they’re calling you, man?”

Miles shakes his head glumly.

“The Butcher of Baltimore.”

Miles’s face is unreadable, but it can’t be easy to hear.

After a long moment, Miles responds, “There’s some value in being the big, scary general.”

“Miles is looking on the bright side! I can’t believe Jeremy’s not awake for this!”

Miles shoots Bass a peevish glance but takes a seat on the edge of Jeremy’s bed.

Bass asks him from behind, “So, we shouldn’t try to counteract the bad PR by sending you on a good-will tour? You know, you holding a litter of puppies, you passing out cotton candy to small people, and ooh! you and Jeremy skipping and holding hands.”

Miles shakes his head. “With my charming personality, I’m sure I’ll restore my cuddly image in no time.” He sighs.

Bass smiles lightly. They can jest about it all they want, but Bass is sure the repercussions of the massacre will play out for years, perhaps into the infinite annals of the Monroe Republic’s history. He perches next to Miles at Jeremy’s bedside.

“Well, no one needs to know you’re cuddly but us.” Bass puts his hand on Miles’s shoulder, and Miles shoves him sideways.

 


End file.
